


The Tale of Mazok

by Doitsuki



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bonding, Bullying, Canon Divergence, Culture Shock, Food, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Id Fic, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Marking, Mild Sexual Content, Misunderstandings, Orc!Maedhros, Orcs, Other, Transformation, Whump, i dont know what to call this, metaphysical concepts, they aint nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6654736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disfigured beyond recognition, Maedhros falls from Thangorodrim ready to die. No longer a beautiful elf-prince, he finds a way to survive as his base instincts consume a tortured mind. <br/>But what lives at the base of Thangorodrim in the filth, dust and heat? Orcs. Lots of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Black Speech translations and sometimes, images will be given. I hope you enjoy this!  
> -inspired by Shadow of Mordor-

Beaten, bloodied and barely alive was Maedhros the First Son of Fëanor outside the gates of Angband. His entire body was so scarred that he no longer looked like the pale, smooth elf he’d once been. Completely unrecognizable, he had only the hair of his eyelashes on his face and little else of his ancient, rare red locks. His murky green eyes stared bloodshot at the cracked ground, upon which dust wafted across to stick to his skin. Sauron had poisoned him so frequently that he’d become a sweating mass of toxins and anguish. At least now he could lie still and wait for death. After falling from Thangorodrim to land in a pile of suspicious organic material, he was sure he’d broken every bone in his body. Now, he was too tired to regenerate lost health and closed his eyes. Even that hurt. Sticky fluids ran down his face from the various wounds that littered his formerly attractive visage. Insects chewed on him. He did not care.

Something poked him in the thigh, covered in muck and dried blood just like him.

“Oi. Get up.”

Maedhros knew the guttural tone well as it sounded like many of his dungeon guards, personal tormentors and cellmates. He gave no answer, raising little effort to request a cease to the sharp poking. It continued, and the voice became aggressive.

“Get _up_ you lump of shrakh, or do I ‘ave to spear you?”

Maedhros registered an orc calling him a piece of shit and wanted to laugh. He looked and smelt as such, feeling no better.

“For Grond’s sake, I can see you _breathing_.” Suddenly the world lurched and Maedhros coughed bile onto the Orc now holding him by the waist. “Morgoth’s _balls_. You look terrible.”

 _‘So do you.’_ Maedhros thought bitterly, wheezing through split lips. Breathing in these arid conditions was more a chore than natural task. The Orc squeezed his gnarled hands and felt organs through thin skin. Other than the bare minimum of muscles needed to survive, the thing in his hands had barely any weight. He raised an eyebrow, or would have if he had any.

“What in the Dark Lord’s name happened to you? You been tortured or suttin?”

The Black Speech in which the Orc spoke was so slurred and hasty that Maedhros caught little meaning in between words. He knew _torture_ however as it had been chanted at him in mocking for several decades and grunted. The Orc blinked as if he’d been given a proper answer.

“Yeah… you look like you pissed off a lieutenant n’ went through the dung-pits, too. Strange you ain’t been humiliated yet. I aven’t seen you around.” Back and forth Maedhros was twisted as the Orc got a good look at him. “You got a name?”

Maedhros could hardly speak let alone think of something to say that wasn’t a scathing insult in Quenya, and groaned. “Nrrrghh.”

The Orc tilted his head to the side. “Didn’t quite get that. But it doesn’t matter. The lads call me Feldush, Feldush the Friendly. You’re damn lucky I found you, weakling.” He threw Maedhros over one shoulder and began walking along the Eastern trench that surrounded Angband, taking care to not fall into the deep lava rivers nearby. Various spiked plants brushed against his dirt-covered boots as he trudged on for yards. Then, he stopped. Maedhros stirred at the most rank, foul scent ever to assault an elven nose.

“You need to get back in the spawnin’ pit. You won’t survive a _day_ in the army.” Feldush peeled Maedhros off his back and stood him on the edge of the spawning pit, a huge hole in the ground filled with twitching corpses. Now and then, a newborn Orc crawled out and died. Maedhros knew only the strong survived in times of war but to be made and collapse shortly after? Was there some sort of luck involved in who was reborn with a body capable of sustaining life, or was natural selection at play? The thoughts swirled in his fogged, weary mind. He gave Feldush a pitiful look and slowly shook his head. Feldush narrowed his eyes.

“Wait… were you spawned here recently? You made it to the gates, an’…” His deep, gravely voice trailed off into a gasp. The whole-spawns were getting rarer and rarer these days, as Morgoth’s war raged on against the seemingly infinite elves. This one was missing a hand and a large percentage of muscle, but with time a proper Orc would result from the present failure. Though Maedhros was weak, he’d at least managed some degree of movement. Feldush led him away from the pit towards a row of tents nearby. Maedhros collapsed however and had to be dragged into a lopsided brown tent where he was put on the ground to rest.

“You need to eat.” said Feldush, unwilling to hear anything other than _yes_. “Otherwise, you’ll never be strong enough to fight.”

Maedhros’s eyes rolled back as he was left alone for what seemed like eternity. His descent into the death of his soul was interrupted by something salty being pushed into his mouth. He gagged, having not eaten for weeks. But his body craved sustenance and expended all its remaining energy into chewing, then swallowing the piece of meat. Feldush watched him with his misty blue eyes.

_‘So he eats, but doesn’t speak to me. What’s wrong with him? He spawned without knowledge of our tongue?’_

Maedhros still had his speedy elven metabolism ready to start regenerating his emaciated body and heard a growl from his stomach. Feldush looked around, expecting a Warg to jump out of nowhere but the tent proved to be safe and quiet. He scratched his head, frowning.

While Maedhros lay, he felt utterly helpless and quite embarrassed to be considered an _Orc_. The prettiest of the Eldar, misconstrued for a twisted monster!

 _‘I could die from the shame. Pah! My face will take centuries to recover from… from **this** … and my hand, it will not grow back.’_ He’d only just chewed it off in a desperate attempt to release himself from Thangorodrim. Now he was grounded, one-handed and, if you’ll pardon the pun, h _armless_. He shivered uncontrollably, impulses from his mind bothering his withered muscles.

“You should sleep.” said Feldush, holding Maedhros down with a hand on his chest. “It’s like dying, only better.”

Maedhros only heard _dying_ and sighed. His throat burned as did the rest of his body in the heated tent, upon the scorching ground. Some sort of crude daylight streamed through the open tent flap, despite the sky being covered in thick grey clouds. How could he sleep when he felt like his life was about to expire?

 _‘Mandos take me. I’ve had enough of this.’_ He relaxed his eyes as best he could, shutting them so the light could not hurt him further. Then the tent darkened, the hand at his chest lifted off and only breathing could be heard.

Exhausted, Maedhros slept against his will. He did not trust the creature beside him, and knew it was going to watch him sleep. But movement, speech and retaliation were options he did not have.

He died on the inside that day, and woke during the night.

Feldush slept beside him sprawled out and snoring. It sounded like a distant stampede inside the Orc’s chest and Maedhros considered throttling him to make it stop. But he could not move – his body was not yet ready.

He lay awake in torment.

 

~

 

Come morning, Maedhros was offered food which he took without really considering. It was Warg-meat, something plentiful around Angband as the creatures bred faster than they could be killed. The Orcs trained most Wargs and ate the weaker ones. Such was life in the barracks of soldiers who would eat _each other_ if hungry enough.

Feldush stuck his head out of the tent and promptly ducked back in.

“There are others about. You gonna tell me your name yet so I can get you to the menders or what?”

Maedhros understood that he had to identify himself and tried to think of a name. If he was to look like an Orc, then acting and sounding like one was expected.

“Maa…zok…” he rasped, coughing his lungs out a second later. It was close enough to his real name that he could respond to it once he was coherent enough to pay attention. Feldush repeated it.

“Mazok?  Agh, stop that!” He grabbed Maedhros – _Mazok_ now, to stop him from coughing but it only continued until blood flowed from chapped lips.

“Uhhnnn….” Mazok fell limp against Feldush, breathing shallowly to avoid being sick at the stench of blood, sweat and _orc_. Two thick arms wrapped around him and pulled him outside, where far too much light assaulted his sensitive skin. It burned now that he could actually distinguish sensations and ai, how he hated it! Hissing and spluttering he was carried to a shabby little hut made of misshapen logs and metal sheets. Inside, medium-sized Orcs wearing loincloths and skull necklaces sat on flat rocks. One with dark red skin and huge, bulbuous yellow eyes squinted at the door.

“Wossat ye got there?”

“Mazok. He’s young, n’ too weak to fight.”

“But e’s whole, yeh?” The other Orc beckoned and Mazok was taken to him for inspection. “Ahh, ain’t seen one like this before. E’s got elvish bits in ‘im, must’ve gotten mixed up wit’ them slaves we threw in the pit last week.”

“Eh? Stupid, you’re not supposed to waste the elves like that! I wanted to play with them… Cut ‘em up a little, y’know?” Feldush pouted as best he could despite having some of the thinnest lips known to Orc-kind. Muggrish the Mender shook his squat head.

“’S just a bit o’ fun. Ya don’t gotta insult us. This one ‘ere, Mazok, needs to eat. Barely got any muscle on ‘im.”

“Use your magic.” Feldush insisted, pointing to the totem pole beside Muggrish. “Fix what you can, he can hardly move.”

“Don’t see why ya don’t just leave ‘im to die, Feldush. Ain’t that what the Dark Lord said? Only the strong survive?”

“You know how weak the pit’s been gettin’. Once a week we’d get a good Uruk outta there ready to go train. Mazok is this week’s runt and you’re going to mend him up real nice, a’ight?” Stepping forwards, Feldush made a mild threat with the baring of teeth towards the two menders. Muggrish and his accomplice made various annoyed noises but picked up Mazok and began to work. Feldush left them to do their job and waited outside, kicking a few hard-shelled beetles as they crawled in the dirt.

The first thing Mazok felt was pain as harsh fingers prodded him in some crude form of acupuncture. Then an acidic tingling, magic repairing his muscles enough for him to be able to eat properly. That was the bare minimum of what the menders had to do, and once they were done they shoved him out into the sun and went back to their shaded seats. Feldush jumped up from crouching to inspect some crushed bugs and caught Mazog.

“You good?”

Mazog managed to nod, wincing and salivating. What was the word for _meat_ again…?

“Aapsss…” he murmured. His appetite gnawed at him as if it had been enhanced somehow. Feldush nodded.  
“Come, we’ll get suttin’.” He didn’t expect Mazok to walk on such scrawny legs and carried him over one broad, leather-clad shoulder. Feldush wore only a few scraps of cloth in semblance of a tunic and breeches, with some stiff black pauldrons and scruffy brown vambraces. Mazok was nude and flopped about limp, his arms dangling down Feldush’s back as he was carried to a blazing fire. Some Orcs sat around it ripping meat from large bones, others poking the flames and many bickering amongst themselves. Several Warg carcasses lay about, ready to be roasted. Mazok spotted maggots on the piece Feldush ripped out for him and scrunched up his face.  
_‘It smells and looks revolting. I would rather starve than eat that.’_ His body however had other ideas and as the squirming, rotting meat was placed into his left hand he cringed to bring it to his face. His arm felt so heavy that lifting it tired him, chewing under close watch. By now the Orcs around the fire had noticed him and some were pointing.

“Looks like a bleedin’ elf!” one muttered, causing raucous laughter to erupt from the Orc sitting beside him.

“What a scrawny lil’ thing! Shall we kill it?”

“No.” Feldush tore his eyes from Mazok and glared at the others. “He’s a whole-spawn, mixed with the slave bits thrown into the pit.”

“A Snaga, eh?” While Mazok nibbled, an Orc by the name of Oloth sauntered up to take a look at him. Feldush skinned back his lips to show all his sharp teeth when Oloth was close enough to take a sniff. “Smells like an elf, looks like an elf, weak and pathetic. You got yourself a little pet, Feldush?”

“An elf wouldn’t survive _this_.” Feldush snarled and held up Mazok’s right arm, showing off the blood-caked stump where a hand should be. “Look at him. You see those scars? He’s nothin’ but em! He’s an Uruk from the pit, and a potential soldier for the army.”

Mazok twisted up his face in anguish, a few tickling worms falling from his lips. He couldn’t believe what he was eating, nor feeling all over. The sun beat down upon his ashen-grey skin, wounds burnt black and yellow beginning to fester in the heat. Not a single patch of his flesh was unharmed, only his insides that were beginning to heal. He took one look at Oloth’s monstrous face and whimpered.

“Hah! Feldush, you got yourself a brainless one for sure.” Oloth sneered. “He may be a whole-spawn, but acts like a young’un.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re _tryin’_ to scare ‘im, idiot! Leave us alone.” Standing in front of Mazok, Feldush gnashed his teeth at Oloth who returned the gesture.

“Who you callin’ idiot?!” Oloth screeched and threw himself at Feldush, claws sinking into the meat of his chest. Feldush rolled to the left where he bit Oloth right in the neck, hard enough to taste his acrid blood. The resulting wail made his ears fold in on themselves and Oloth scrambled to stop the bleeding.

“Whaddya do that for?! I could’ve died!

“All the better!” Feldush shouted, licking his lips. “You’re a troublemaker, food for the Olog!” It was known that Orcs who didn’t die in their frequent sparring matches were left in such poor condition they could only be troll-food. Oloth however was more than a pulpy mess, able to give mean glares to the onlookers by the fire. He slunk away while Feldush picked up some meat for himself, turning back to Mazok.

 _‘Hold a moment.’_ thought Mazok, squinting through the crust on his eyelids to see the Orc sit beside him. _‘Did he just… defend me?’_

He knew little of Orc culture and less of why they were so aggressive. If they were this quick to anger, it was safe to assume he wouldn’t last long with his current levels of strength. They seemed to fight amongst themselves with tooth and nail, something Mazok knew little of. He’d always trained with a sword in his right hand. It was the civilized, Noldorin way.

He no longer had a sword, or a right hand. Mazok furrowed his brows and sighed heavily. Coughing resulted from his attempt to breathe out his frustrations, drawing attention once more from many sitting nearby. Feldush patted him on the back hard enough for him to choke, meat flying out of his mouth.

“You’ll be fine. Finish that and we’ll go someplace else.”

 _‘I don’t think I can eat it all…’_ Mazok looked at the remaining scrap of meat in his hand, his stomach churning and chest squeezing along with it. He shook his head.

“What, are you picky? It’s the maggots, innit? Too… zesty, right?” Feldush’s attempt at conversation was met with a dead stare and quivering lips. “Okay, okay. You ate a good bit, let’s go.” He hauled up Mazok and carried him through the camps, walking in the shadow of Angband to shield his new friend from the light. Lava so bright flowed from Thangorodrim constantly, it made a semipermanent daylight for the Orcs to despise. Mazok stared at the boiling rivers, feeling quite nauseous with the motion of Feldush’s heavy steps. He tried to get him to stop walking but his weak pokes went unnoticed and soon, he’d vomited all over the Orc’s back. Feldush glanced back with a piteous look in his eyes. He muttered something Mazok did not understand, and kept walking.

 _‘What? He doesn’t care?!’_ Mazok groaned softly, feeling so wretched he was ready to jump into the lava pits. _‘Ai… why am I not dead yet?’_

After minutes of trying to think of reasons to live, Mazok was placed on a rock and heard running water. Blinking confusion from his mind he saw that he sat in a shaded area, the ground a little less dry and the weather cooler. Here, massive blocks of ice melted beside lava streams by Morgoth’s will to provide water for the Orcs. As the ice was his own craft, it contained his dark influence that kept the Orcs strong, hateful and obedient. Mazok drank from a hollowed horn without question. The lukewarm water soothed his burning throat and he found himself thirsting for more, holding out the horn to Feldush who refilled it.

Feldush crouched by the lake and dipped his hand in. After drinking a little he lay on his back, where the muck on his tunic smeared into the ground and dried a bit. Mazok was too relieved to notice and soon felt a little life enter his body. With said life, he could think with more clarity.

_‘Just why is he doing all this for me? He thinks I’m an Orc… disgusting. I doubt one of my own kin would recognize me as I am now… what if I reach an elf and they shoot me down for looking like the enemy? How horrible!’_

Feldush had little else to do and did not mind looking after Mazok much. Whole-spawns were crucial to filling the ranks of the army, making for good fodder and distractions when the tougher warriors needed them. Feldush however believed in every spawned Uruk having the opportunity to become a proper soldier, and patrolled near the pits daily to see who seemed capable of it. At last he’d found one, but not in the condition he expected. Whole-spawns usually came out crawling but otherwise healthy, while half-spawns were missing limbs and had some sort of sickness upon them. Many hook-armed and peg-legged half-spawns made up the infantry of the Dark Army. Few survived their first battle.

Feldush turned his head to see Mazok staring at him, and flashed a sharp grin. His yellowish teeth were so pointy they’d destroyed his lips and toughened the remaining skin. Mazok’s eyes widened at the sight.

 _‘Ah, he doesn’t know ‘bout how we Uruks are, bein’ newly spawned n’ all that. Right! I’ll teach him!’_ Feldush got up, unsticking himself from the ground. “Mazok! You don’t understand nothin, right?”

Mazok gave him a blank stare, posture rigid.

“Thought so. But you’ll learn soon enough! Everyone does.” Glancing around, Feldush put a hand to his face. “It’ll be hard for you, bein’ all weak-lookin’.” Learning mannerisms and speech came with being accepted among the Orcs and those who were outcast had barely any social abilities. Mazok was just the type to be prodded and played with, one for the weakest Orcs to show dominance over.  Feldush didn’t have a clue how to raise a new-spawn but knew someone who could. That someone was sauntering this way with an empty barrel, eager to collect some water then return to his tent.

“Hoshgrish! Over ‘ere!” Feldush waved his arms about madly and Hoshgrish noticed at once. Huge and hulking, this Orc had a dark greenish grey colour to his skin and quite a wide body. He wore a set of plate armour laced together with straining rope and stomped over in his leather boots. Mazok noticed he had less signs of injury than the other Orcs he’d seen, but wore a menacing toothy necklace that suggested he could probably fight well.

Hoshgrish tilted his round head to the left upon approaching Feldush, and the two Orcs sniffed each other’s necks in greeting.

“Out and about as usual, hm?” Hoshgrish smiled, openly glad to see his friend. His yellow eyes glinted with curiosity. “What’s that I smell? Something… sweet?”

Feldush stepped aside to present Mazok, who was wondering why this new Orc spoke so softly. He made the Black Speech sound almost… delicate.

“This is Mazok, a whole-spawn. He can’t say much, or-”

“Oh, flame and torment! Whatever happened to you?” Hoshgrish pushed past Feldush to hold Mazok by the shoulders, looking over him with clear worry on his face. “Fresh from the pit and so terribly scarred! You poor thing!”

Mazok emitted a terrified mewl, staring in shock at the sudden face before him. Yet… he did not feel pain from the grasp or presence. Hoshgrish’s hands were nearly twice the size of Mazok’s head, but lightly held him without insinuating restraint. Mazok looked to Feldush helplessly.

“This… is Hoshgrish the Gentle, I figured ‘e could teach you a thing or two.” Feldush placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Oi, be careful. ‘E’s a nervous one.”

“I won’t hurt you.” said Hoshgrish, stroking Mazog’s gaunt cheeks with the pads of his meaty fingers. “Understand?”

Mazog _did_ understand the words said to him but believed none of it. _‘What is wrong with these Orcs?!’_ he thought to himself, expecting a cruel laugh to erupt out of nowhere. _‘Surely they play games with me, nay, this is likely one of Sauron’s illusory practices to lull me into a false sense of—eeH! Why is he touching me like that?’_ Mazok leaned back to escape the awfully tender touch at his cheeks, which stung a little due to the numerous open wounds and exposed nerves. He had no balance however and fell, about to crack his skull on the ground. Hoshgrish caught him and held him close to his armoured body.

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ll look after you, runt.” Though it was beyond Mazok to imagine the Orcs as capable of anything more than killing and sadism, he was faced with the compassion of a creature that could easily snap his neck. Hoshgrish picked him up, cradling him instead of throwing him over one shoulder. Mazok felt tiny in his arms, and quite embarrassed as Feldush grinned at him.

“He’ll make sure you get nice n’ strong. You’ll be slaughtering elves in no time!” Feldush turned to the lake then and put his hands on his hips. Mazok could still see his own dried vomit plastered to the Orc’s back and Feldush didn’t even care. “Ahh…”

“Feldush, do me good and fill up that barrel will you? I’ve got to take this little one back.” Hoshgrish indicated with his head to the barrel he’d set down near the lake’s edge. Feldush nodded, picked it up and filled it to the brim. He then walked alongside Hoshgrish back to the rows of tents, every one unique and recognizable to its owner. Hoshgrish owned a square green tent with many Warg-skins on the floor, leather to the ground and soft fur to sit atop. Mazok nearly cried at the sudden comfort of the furs beneath his aching body as he was lowered carefully by Hoshgrish.

“You stay there.” A kind smile spread across Hoshgrish’s face and he reached over to the barrel Feldush had placed in the corner of the tent. “You’re too young to be drinking blood… so here, have this.” He offered a horn of water to Mazok, who still thirsted and drank in small sips. There was something about the water that tasted strange, metallic and smoky and _evil_. It was necessary rejuvenation however and Mazok did not complain.

Feldush crossed his legs when he sat down near the entrance flap. “So how are you gon’ teach ‘im the ways like us when he can’t even talk right?”

Hoshgrish gave him a surprisingly scathing look. “He will learn. But first he must get better. Can’t you see how weak he is? You should know better than to expect conversation from a new-spawn.”

“Agh…” Feldush looked away. “Right, right.”

Hoshgrish began petting the soft fuzz atop Mazok’s head, feeling patches of growth amidst burns and scars. “Does that hurt?” he asked, watching for a reaction. Mazok winced a little for he did not appreciate the touch at all and did his best to recoil.

“He’s prolly a day old.” Feldush muttered as he watched Mazok’s awkwardness. “Be careful with him, alright?”

“No need to remind me.” said Hoshgrish, wringing his hands together. “Where did you say you found him?”

“By the gates, on the East side. Coulda’ been squashed by patrol if I hadn’t picked ‘im up!”

“Mm…” Looking up and down Mazok’s quivering form, Hoshgrish wondered why he’d spawned with so many wounds. “Have you taken him to the Menders? He seems to have been cursed.”

“Yeah, they fixed ‘im up inside a bit. All we gots to do is wait, n’ he’ll heal up right quick.” Feldush took a strip of Warg jerky from the bowl beside him and dipped it into an open pot of coagulated blood. “He can’t eat on his own.”

Hoshgrish didn’t mind sharing food with his friend and took some of the dried meat for himself. Then he paused, holding it between two fingers. He offered it to Mazok, who sniffed it like a puppy.

 _‘It doesn’t look too bad… though it smells a little off.’_ Mazok parted his lips despite being tired enough to fall unconscious and chewed slowly. _‘Ugh, it’s tough…’_

Feldush nibbled his own piece, peering in the dim light at Hoshgrish. “You should clean ‘im up a bit. I ain’t got the hands for it.” Even he could see that Mazok’s body needed looking after. Orcs were often covered in any amount of blood, pus and shit but not so soon after being spawned.

_‘The Dark Lord doesn’t favour ‘im at all…’_

“Of course.” Hoshgrish had a few scraps of cloth around and thought to dip one in water and wipe Mazok clean. He wet the softest rag he had (part of a sack which the elf-slaves wore) and held it up to Mazok, saying to him “Be strong.”

Mazok shut his eyes, stiff all over. Water dripped down his face as he felt the closest thing to a caress he had in a very long time. Very lightly his eyelids were dabbed at until they softened and were free of debris. They remained bloodshot but his vision cleared a tad when he opened them. Hoshgrish avoided his broken nose and turned the rag over to scrub dried blood from the scars on Mazok’s cheeks. He checked a few sores over and cleaned everything until Mazok squirmed in discomfort. Then he leaned back and inspected him.

“You will heal.” he said with a quiet, contemplative tone. “You’re going to be a proper tough Uruk soon. I’ll help you.”

Mazok blinked a few times, his eyelashes no longer sticky and bothersome. He opened his mouth. “Ah…”

“He agrees!” Feldush clicked his teeth with a grin. “I think ‘e likes you.”

“Akh.” Hoshgrish spoke the word _yes_ to Mazok, who nodded and repeated it back at him in a whisper. “Very good.”

 _‘Did he just **praise** me?’ _ Mazok’s disbelief did not go unnoticed, being misunderstood for confusion instead.

“Don’t fret.” said Hoshgrish, leaning Mazok down onto the furs so he could relax. “In time we’ll be able to talk with each other.” Mazok only caught half his words as he was more articulate than the Orcs he’d known inside Angband. Meaning could be transmitted without pronouns or prepositions, which existed as grunts of various pitch Mazok could not identify. Hoshgrish used a lot of them, Feldush too. Nearly every guard and torturer Mazok had seen spoke in simple terms- _give knife, cut elf, want food._ He lay still on his back, eyelids heavy. While his heart did not pound with fright, his body sank into a much needed sleep. Feldush and Hoshgrish spoke amongst themselves as quietly as Orcs could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaps is derived from Quenya Aapsa, meaning meat.  
> Akh = Yes.  
> Maaz + ogh = Better Way. Mazauk = War, to make war. Maedhros’s new name in Black Speech pretty much means to make war in a better way (if you chant it). The Orcs have a cockney kinda mishmash way of speaking, mispronouncing anything they can out of laziness or inability. So, there are many ways for words to be interpreted.
> 
>  
> 
> Translations from thelandofshadow


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in case you're wondering, I didn't write this fic under stress to make it 'good'. It was a fun adventure of the mind lol so there's stuff in here like lack of realism when it comes to Mazok softening up around the Orcs, and the Orcs being capable of compassion in the first place. But you know, Shadow of Mordor got me thinking. There are cowardly Orcs, and there are those who do not want to fight you even if it is Sauron's will. Yet, they are not traitors....

For an entire week, Mazok thrived in the care of Hoshgrish and Feldush. Hoshgrish paid close attention to his health on a daily basis, believing in letting wounds heal themselves over time. Feldush brought food and some healing supplies from the Menders, things like tools to dig out infections and burn painful tissue past the point of nerve function. Like most Orcs he saw _kill it with fire_ as a legitimate means of solving problems, and Mazok’s body seemed to heal burns quicker than anything else. At the end of the week, Mazok had a more even colour to his skin with less dark bruises and a more generic, colourless tone to his rent flesh. Of course, pinkish spots on his skull still stung and his hair wasn’t growing much, but his condition was improving. Somehow, he still looked like an Orc, one of the most frail anyone had ever seen. He had no fingernails or toenails, very prominent bones and a well-structured but antagonized face. He envisioned his own appearance as a terrible thing in his dreams, sometimes losing sleep over this grief.

At the morning’s eruption of Thangorodrim, he jolted awake and found he could _move._ But he was alone. Outside a clamor could be heard, shouting and clashing and many heavy feet. Above all, the Orcs chanted a name Mazok never wanted to hear again.

_Sauron._

Hiding in the tent, Mazok trembled. The ground shook with him and a loud voice boomed from the topmost tower of Angband. Sauron, in his entire set of black iron armour addressed the Orcs.

“Double patrols are to be enforced at all times! An elf-prisoner has escaped Angband and is in need of recapture. Bring him to me alive and see reward. That is all!” Then he was gone, and the Orcs assembled began squabbling. Rewards from the Dark Lieutenant often included promotion and respect, things the Orcs had to work incredibly hard to attain otherwise.

“We’ll find ‘im!” someone screamed, others cheering in agreement.

“Me find first!” came from quite a few of them and soon about five hundred Orcs were brawling just to prove they were stronger and better than each other. Such a thing was so common that it was depleting the army’s reserves quicker than the actual battles did. Hoshgrish and Feldush wanted no part of it and while vowing to do their part in the search, retreated from the fray. Mazok squinted as a crack of light beamed through the entrance flap, curled up in a ball near the back of the tent.

“Ah!” Hoshgrish crawled over to him, kneeling on the furs. “You moved! Are you okay?”

Mazok knew there was a search for him on and now that he was healing, he was beginning to look a little more elvish. He stared at Hoshgrish with high trepidation  displayed all over. “Not… kill… me…” he whimpered. “No…”

“Why? What’s the matter, why are you saying that?” Hoshgrish reached out and held Mazok’s upper arms, stabilizing his slight back and forth movement. “Stay still… did someone threaten you?”

Feldush entered just as Mazok, struggling with expressing himself, squeaked out “ _Sauron_.” His blue gaze fell to Hoshgrish who seemed to be causing further distress.

“Hey… ease up a lil’. ‘E’s been spooked!” Feldush shut the flap behind him and scooted over. “Give ‘im some room.”

Hoshgrish did so and watched Mazok carefully. His pointed ears had drooped a little, face pale and eyes wide. He did indeed appear like a frightened elf. Feldush saw this and commented.

“He’s prolly ‘eard what the Lieutenant said. Since ‘e looks like an elf, ev’ryone will be out to get ‘im!”

Staring, Hoshgrish had a moment of doubt. “He… spawned around the time those slaves fell into the pit… what if he’s more Elf than Uruk?”

Feldush shook his head. “Nothing that comes outta the pit is anything other than Uruk. It’s a bit hard to tell with this one… but e’s one of us. We gotta protect ‘im till e’s ready to fight.” If the whole-spawns weren’t raised and attended to, the army would be lacking in fresh blood. Baby Orcs born the natural way took time to reach adult size whereas those spawned came out fully grown. Mazok was lacking a hand and confidence but could learn in months how to fight. So Feldush believed, and made Hoshgrish believe it too.

Mazok hid his face in his hand. _‘Already they are seeing the changes… once I start healing faster, there will be no way they can think of me as one of their own. But… I cannot fight them if they turn against me. There are too many…’_ He’d seen only one fight amongst the Orcs and it was such a savage sight, he didn’t think he’d survive long. Not with these strange aches all over his body and the lack of weapons training for his remaining hand. Deep in his bones he had begun to feel a stretching sensation, those that were broken starting to repair themselves along with his muscles. The amount of pain he felt during the process often kept him awake, and not even his Orc caretakers knew what to do. Pain was a frequent, pervasive part of regular life here and there wasn’t much available to cease it, other than death. To reject pain was to reject their ways, so Mazok did not complain and tried to bear it.

After two weeks, he began to notice changes. He’d suspected his body wasn’t repairing itself right and to heal the damage done to his shoulders, it had extended his bones. His shoulderblades jutted out like knives from his back, a little muscle twisted there and trying to push out of his skin. His collarbones had actually split his flesh, reaching out on either side to make his upper body wider.

 _‘What… is happening to me?’_ he thought to himself, scratching at a scab on his arm. _‘It hurts… and it looks wrong…’_ Now that he was able to move, crawl about and sit up on his own he could twist about to look at himself. To his dismay, Hoshgrish and Feldush seemed pleased with his agonizing transformation.

“See? You’re getting better. Whatever curse you got from the pit is lifting! You almost look ready to go outside.” said Hoshgrish, patting Mazok on the thigh. “How do you feel?”

“Hurts.” Mazok grunted. “Everywhere.”

“Pain’s just the weakness escapin’! You’ll be strong in no time.” Feldush grinned, stretching his thick arms. “Mmngh. Once you’re ready, we’ll spar a bit. Eh?”

“I think it would be better if I taught him first.” Hoshgrish placed a light hand on Mazok’s head. “You might hurt him. You know. Killing instinct and all.”

“Awh…” Feldush lowered his head, offended but unwilling to pick a fight. Though he didn’t like it, he knew he could get carried away by the thrill of battle. Every Orc loved a good duel. Often to the death.

It was this capacity for deference that allowed him to survive for so long, maintaining good relationships with the other mindful Orcs. Only a select few could set aside their natural pride and arrogance for a selfless benefit, and it was these who saw merit in things other than slaughter. Hoshgrish loved nothing more than to help others become the best soldiers possible, loyal to Morgoth with the intelligence to be useful in many areas. He also had an appreciation for physical comfort and thus carpeted his tent in soft warg-furs to sleep on. He fought only when necessary, as his body was slow to heal. Feldush on the other hand was thick-skinned and recovered quickly from most injuries, going about his days standing up for himself and now Mazok. He fought when provoked, and had the ability to reason between clawing out throats and stepping away. But if named a coward, all thoughts vanished and instinct took over. It was so for every Orc.

Mazok thought about fighting Hoshgrish and shuddered at the thought. Sparring with someone named _Bloodguts the Gentle_ couldn’t possibly end well. Though Hoshgrish treated him with a strange semblance of kindness, Mazok was waiting for him to accuse him of elven blood and rip his face off. When Hoshgrish smiled, his thin pointy teeth glistened as did his beady yellow eyes. He truly meant no harm, but Mazok could barely look at him. Coming from a culture based around appearance and manner, Mazok felt nothing but disgust and confusion for these Orcs. It was almost beyond him to imagine that they could be anything other than filthy savages, yet here were two guarding him from the violent, armed masses. And for what? So he could fight in Morgoth’s army against his own true kin? Mazok hoped for death before that day.

 

~

 

A few weeks later, Mazok was lead outside by Hoshgrish, who held his hand. It was late enough in the day that everyone was either training in the shade or lounging about in their tents, so nobody bothered the two as they walked. Or staggered, in the case of Mazok who was unsteady on his blistered feet. He wore a ragged leather tunic which he’d managed to keep clean along with loose cloth breeches the same shade of faded brown. Hoshgrish had been keeping a close eye on him lately and today, announced that Mazok was _ready_. Weeks of eating warg-meat and drinking water imbued with the Dark Lord’s power had changed Mazok’s body from a slender, elflike form to a rather stocky, heavy-boned figure. Muscles and stretched, scarred skin covered all sorts of protrusions until Mazok looked like the oldest Orcs – those twisted from elves. Every day he was in pain but it was beginning to melt into an everyday fact of his existence. Nubs ridged his back from adjustments to his spine. The green of his gaze shone from within yellowed eyes. He stooped a little as he tried to keep up with Hoshgrish, who headed for a distant row of buildings around Angband’s eastern watchtower.  

“Where we go?” asked Mazok, squeezing Hoshgrish’s hand.

“To Fil Gashan, where you’re going to get some armour. And some boots! Very important, you know.” Leading the way, Hoshgrish swung his arms a little. Mazok nearly faceplanted into his back and grunted.

“Go slow.”

“Ah, we’re almost there.”

After a few minutes of walking too fast for Mazok’s liking, they came across a rectangular building with obvious stairs leading underground. It was all made of grey stone, a lighter shade than Mazok’s skin. Hoshgrish lead him down, trailing a hand along the moss and muck-covered walls. A bluish tint painted a cold, unforgiving picture of hard discipline the deeper they went. Every fifty steps there was a floor spanning far left and right with many branching hallways. These were the barracks where all sorts of soldiers slept, Captains and Generals too. Chief guards patrolled the place and gave Mazok dirty looks. On the sixth floor Hoshgrish stepped away from the stairs and Mazok nearly fainted.

 _‘Finally! No more of those accursed stairs! My feet are **killing**_ _me_ …’

“This way.” Tugging Mazok’s hand, Hoshgrish pointed to several piles of armour lined up against a wall. The stench of blood and metal wafted from that side of the hall and Mazok wrinkled his broken nose. “Go pick something.”

Mazok looked to Hoshgrish, who seemed ready to let go of him. Something kept him from releasing his grip however and Mazok stuttered, “Come.”

So Hoshgrish did, with a soft smile and easy step. He bent in a pile of armour, picking out a tarnished silvery breastplate that had once belonged to an elf. It had been reworked to fit a medium-sized Orc, and bore the image of a tree splashed with blood. Mazok recognized it as Noldorin and widened his eyes.

 _‘If I put that on… I’ll definitely look like an elf. Wait, why do I think of that first? No, this is… this is wrong, it has been plundered from the body of a kinsman who fought valiantly against these…’_ His thoughts broke into several pieces when Hoshgrish dropped the armour with a _clang_.

“Maybe leather.” he said, fishing out some pauldrons similar to the ones Feldush wore. These were simple, four sections for each shoulder riveted together and triangle-shaped. Mazok reached for one and placed it on his right shoulder with his left hand. It sat well enough, and once Hoshgrish helped him strap it properly he found it to be quite comfortable.

“Good.” Mazok murmured, glancing at the pile. “More?”

“Yes, you need something to protect your chest and legs. We’ll find something!”

They rooted around in the pile together until Mazok could leave Fil Gashan with a tough leather breastplate and a fine brown belt, iron tassets hanging from the sides in five segments. In the pile he’d managed to find boots that fit him but they needed ropes to secure properly to his skinny ankles. Back at the camps, he managed to tie up his boots nice and tight. Hoshgrish inspected him and announced that he was ready to start training.

“Training? Me?” Mazok stepped back. “Not… strong…”

“You will get strong once you fight a bit. Come! Spar with me!” Hoshgrish wandered to an empty patch of ground behind his tent and got into a wide, loose stance. His smile encouraged Mazok to try and land a hit, but Mazok wasn’t sure how hard he _could_.

 _‘I won’t be able to hurt him. He’s all muscle and teeth.’_ He staggered forth and made a weak punch at the Orc’s chest. Hoshgrish then made the same motion, a little slower. Mazok jerked to the side, lost his balance and fell into a waiting hand. Hoshgrish pushed him to his feet with a shove in the chest, the other hand grabbing Mazok’s shoulder to steady him.

“Again. Try to kill me.”

“Not… want kill you. No.” Mazok shook his head, unwilling to even _try_ and slaughter the Orc who had cared for him from the brink of death to the point of wellness. Hoshgrish’s excited gaze softened.

“Just try. I’m tough, I won’t fall so easy!”

Mazok took a deep breath, coughed a bit and jumped on Hoshgrish. He tried to bite into his neck but found no prominent vein there – only muscle.

“Good, good…” Hoshgrish gently nudged Mazok’s head away, worming a finger in between those little teeth until Mazok’s jaw slackened and stopped biting. He then was met with a helpless stare, one that asked _what now?_ He made his move and pried Mazok off, holding him at arm’s length. Then, he gave him a headbutt. Mazok felt it connect and winced.

“Next time, you lean back.” said Hoshgrish, demonstrating with his own body. “Even if you land on the floor, at least you keep your skull together.”

Mazok nodded. He squirmed, trying to be free and Hoshgrish dropped him on his feet. Then out of nowhere, Hoshgrish drew a dagger and held it by the blade, offering the handle to Mazok. “Use this.”

Mazok held it in his left hand, unwieldy and concerned. This was real steel sharp and heavy. How was he going to translate centuries of right-hand weapons training into his useless left? He made a swipe at Hoshgrish, catching the Orc unawares. It connected with his plate armour leaving not even a scratch.

“In between.” Hoshgrish pointed to the gaps in his armour, particularly his bare arms and upper legs. “Go on.”

Mazok hesitated, then went to stab Hoshgrish in the arm. Hoshgrish dodged, spurring Mazok to try again. As he stepped back his hand came around to grab the side of Mazok’s head, sending him to the ground at once. Dust clouds rose from the impact and Mazok felt it in his bones. He groaned, rolling onto his back. Hoshgrish picked him up and held him close.

“You’re okay.”

 _‘What is this…?’_ Mazok’s mental fog of pain and confusion dissipated when the Orc seemed to _hug_ him. _‘This… is not an attack. Nor is it defence… What should I do?’_ After observing no threat, he dropped the dagger. Hoshgrish was watching him closely as he pressed his face against the topmost armor plate on his shoulder.

“Head… hurts.” Mazok mumbled, closing his eyes. Being utterly supported like this distracted him from his usual anguish and disgust.

“Let’s go back inside.” said Hoshgrish, unwilling to tire out his new training partner too much. He took Mazok into the tent, lay him on the furs and stroked his head. “Rest. Pain doesn’t last forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if I forgot to translate something pls let me know


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Mazok woke up beside Hoshgrish who was busy strapping on his armour.

“Oh! You’re up.” Hoshgrish patted Mazok’s head then went back to adjusting his bits and pieces. “Fell asleep in your armour, you did. Good leather, innit?”

Mazok looked down at himself. There were his boots at his feet, his belt with the stiff tassets splayed out and his breastplate.

 _‘I must’ve been exhausted… Yes, we fought yesterday. And he… carried me here.’_ Sitting up, Mazok felt an ache all over his body. He didn’t complain, instead shuffling closer to Hoshgrish. Hoshgrish buckled the last strap on his left pauldron and looked at him.

“What is it?”

“Don’t know.” said Mazok after a few seconds, looking away. “Want food.”

“Let’s go.” Hoshgrish offered a greenish hand to lead Mazok out of the tent, despite the smaller Orc being able to make his way outside on his own. Mazok still took the hand and walked beside Hoshgrish, squinting until his eyes adjusted to the daylight. They met Feldush at the fire in the middle of the camps, sitting with him on a long dry log. He ripped off an entire leg from the morning’s carcass and offered it to Hoshgrish, who gave the most tender section to Mazok before tearing into the leg with his sharp teeth. Mazok had by now learned not to eat politely and bit the meat, finding very little fat on it as it was well-cooked and lean.

“What this?” He poked Hoshgrish hard enough to get a response.

“Caragor.” The carcass was a little bigger than a Warg, and now that Mazok looked closely he could see its face resembling a mutated, aggressive cat. Horns stuck out from its ridged spine, many rib sections broken and covered in coagulated blood. Someone had already eaten the heart, leaving intestines and other entrails on the floor for the taking. Feldush had wrapped a deflated lung around a stick and was toasting it in the fire, being very careful to not set it alight. It was a little snack after some nice breast meat, something he’d fought for soon after waking. In the world of Orcs, if you wanted anything it had to be brawled over, and defended soon after lest it be taken away. Mazok learnt from Feldush’s wise words and Hoshgrish explained it to him in a less harsh manner. He thought himself lucky to still be alive with the way things were down here. The atmosphere always consisted of blistering heat and sweaty, bloodied fights. There was little sickness in this particular camp, and Mazok had been told not to go past Fil Gashan to the larger settlements where a plague had broken out. Wraiths patrolled the area there to keep healthy Orcs out and diseased ones in. Mazok hadn’t caught anything more than an infection in the beginning, all ails solved by the magic of the Menders and clean water. Water was the only thing Mazok found he couldn’t get enough of, and despite knowing it was the Dark Lord’s mockery of Ulmo’s pure craft he still drank much of it daily. Hoshgrish had an extra barrel in the tent just for him, and as a part of Mazok’s exercise they went to the lake to collect it every day. Carrying barrels back and forth had made Mazok’s spindly arms strong, and they were becoming rather meaty as they filled out the sleeves of his tunic. His legs too could carry him well enough, though his balance could use much improvement. Aside from being disoriented now and then, Mazok had physically recovered almost entirely from his centuries of torment. If only Sauron could see him now.

Mazok stopped chewing. ‘ _What **if** he saw me now? An elf, living like an Orc, and accepting it…? What… what have I become? What would my father say, were he still alive? Mandos is watching this very minute, perhaps torturing him with truthful tales!’_ The meat tasted bland in his mouth, stringy and with crisp edges. He looked down at his left hand, holding the food with fingers that had no nails. His right forearm came up, mind trying to move a hand that no longer existed.

_‘What… **am** I?’_

“Are you alright?” asked Hoshgrish, seated between Mazok and Feldush. He had no shame for showing concern for his fellow Uruk, not in front of the others who knew him by title and reputation. “Mazok?”

Mazok’s eyes glistened as he looked up at Hoshgrish, feeling so small sitting beside him and only tall enough to reach his chest. Hoshgrish placed an arm around his shoulder and cuddled him close, making sure that the edges of his armour didn’t cut into Mazok’s delicate face. Already, some were starting to name him _Mazok Pretty-Face_ for how shapely his features were. It was often said in mocking, but Mazok took no offense. Though he considered at times what it meant to be ‘pretty’ among Orcs.

“Eat your breakfast, runt. You’ll feel better.” Hoshgrish spoke to him affectionately, holding him close while he ate. The Caragor-meat didn’t have much taste but at least it was untainted. Mazok chewed with his eyes closed, feeling stares upon him.

Feldush had been spending less time with Mazok over the past few weeks, looking for more whole-spawns to befriend and look after. He was however curious about the elflike Uruk who had flourished under Hoshgrish’s gentle care and wanted to be a part of his continued recovery. Now that Mazok could speak and understand their dark tongue, Feldush could ask him all the questions he’d been aching to know. What were his memories like? Why did he often look so sad? How did he percieve his surroundings and did he understand _emotions?_  
Now was not a good time for interrogation however and Feldush ate his lung-on-a-stick in silence.

 

~

 

Later in the day, Mazok went with Hoshgrish and Feldush on a short trip to the Warg pens. Behind the wooden gates, Glothrok the Vile rode around on his pet Foshân, an enormous black Warg thrice his size with visible patches of flesh between his fur. Hoshgrish found it endearing that Glothrok called his Warg _baby_ despite Foshân being several decades old. Upon reaching the gates, Mazok hid as Foshân growled.

“He won’t hurt ya! Eh, I haven’t seen you around before! Who’s this one?” Glothrok tilted his head left and right, running his clawed fingers through Foshân’s fur.

“Mazok, why don’t you say hello?” Hoshgrish nudged Mazok through the gates, which a few smaller Orcs opened. Feldush went in after, eyeing Glothrok cheekily.

“Nice hat.”

“Got it last week!” Glothrok grinned as he showed off his fancy wide-brimmed hat, the kind farmers wore to shield themselves from the sun. This one was a dirty green bowl turned upside down with a rim of stiff, woven straw stuck on with tar. It contrasted with Glothrok’s orange tan skin but matched his light armour and loincloth. “What’ve you fellas come for today?”

Foshân sniffed at Mazok, gnashing his sharp teeth just barely under control. Mazok could tell he was hungry and stood behind Hoshgrish for protection.

“Just showin’ the runt around.” Feldush smacked Mazok in the back, encouraging him to walk further into the enclosed area. Many iron cages held sleeping Wargs, shaded as they were nocturnal creatures who disliked daylight. Descended from wolves, their bodies rippled with muscle while particularly large chests contained powerful hearts and huge, healthy lungs. They howled at night and fought each other when it was time to eat, but otherwise didn’t cause much trouble. Glothrok loved them all, and they all answered to him.

Foshân was quite aggressive during the day due to the pain light caused him and twisted around. Glothrok cooed to him, ruffling the fur behind his ears. It made Mazok wonder if the Wargs were Angband’s version of pet dogs, something his brother Celegorm had spoken much of in the Elder Days. At least his prayers had been answered and he had a hound of his own, Huan. Mazok did not think it was right to let animals be anything other than free. Seeing the Wargs in the small cages, he frowned.

“So. This is where Glothrok trains the Wargs for battle.” Hoshgrish tickled a Warg through the bars of its cage as he spoke to Mazok. It tried to bite his finger off but Hoshgrish was too quick in retreating. “They’re strong enough to hold Uruks on their backs and can bite through just about anything. Feldush knows how to ride _and_ spear enemies at once!”

“And you?” Feldush punched Hoshgrish in the shoulder, laughing. “You can’t even get up on one with those legs of yours.”

“It’s not my fault these legs were made for walking, not riding. So the Spawn goes.” Hoshgrish dismissively waved his hand, then laced one arm around Mazok’s shoulders. “What do you think? Would you like to ride one?”

Mazok shook his head at once and pointed to his own teeth, clicking them. “Scary.”

“Ahh, yes. They can bite quite hard. But if you master one, it’ll never hurt you. Glothrok can teach you how one day.”

“One day.” Mazok nodded. “Not this day.”

“Mazok! Lemme have a look at ya.” Glothrok jumped down from Foshân’s back and approached. Hoshgrish stood aside as the smaller Orc leaned in and sniffed Mazok’s neck. Mazok did the same and caught scents so terrible he could distinguish none of them. Appropriate for someone named _Filth-Eater_.

“Mmm, you’re a frail one ain’t ya? New-spawn? Friendly with the slaves?” Glothrok smelt _elf_ on Mazok and wrinkled his nose. “Peeeh, too clean!”

Mazok had no idea what to say and shrugged. Foshân watched him with his narrow red eyes.

“He ain’t been in much fights. Still a young’un.” Feldush shoved Mazok a bit to the side. “Ain’t killed anyone either.”

“We’ll have to change that!” said Glothrok, hopping back onto Foshân. “Let’s go mess up the Globsnaga. They’ll make for good killin’!”

“I don’t think he’s ready…” Hoshgrish murmured loud enough for everyone to hear.

“What’re ya talkin about? Every lil’ Uruk loves going for a fight. Unless he’s a coward…?”

“Me _not_ coward.” said Mazok, curling his hands into fists. “Where Globsnaga? Me kill.” He could not yet pronounce or inflect the word for _I_ , thus used _me_ instead.

 _‘It’s about time I got started culling these things **and** looking good while I do._ ’

The Globsnaga were _fool-slaves_ , also known as the smaller Orcs the elves considered Goblins. Half-spawns who grew to no height above one and a half meters, most gibbered madly and were utterly mindless. As individuals, they were sniveling cowards who recoiled from anyone who appeared remotely stronger than themselves -- in large masses, they were known to hurl themselves with unthinking savagery onto spear and axe. In groups the goblins in front simply had no choice, as they were pushed forward by the teeming masses behind them, and so they fought like cornered animals. Strategizing wasn’t one of their strengths.

Glothrok picked up a pike from the rack against the fence and gestured with it to Mazok.

“Get yerself a weapon. We’re going hunting! You, me, Foshân and those two.” Glothrok swept a line in the ground with the tip of his pike just before where Hoshgrish and Feldush stood.

“Oi, do we get some too?” asked Feldush, knowing that taking weapons without permission was a sure way to get ripped apart.

“Help yerself.” Glothrok pointed to the rack, then rode Foshân out of the gates. “And hurry up!”

Hoshgrish took a massive warhammer for himself and hefted it over one shoulder, carrying it easily. Feldush chose a nice shiny cutlass and Mazok took a sword the length of his left arm. He held it clumsily, unused to the weight and balance of it. After a few test swings, he looked to Hoshgrish.

“Let’s go.”

They all went following Glothrok to the south, where beyond the seemingly endless Orc camps a few fortifications could be seen. The Goblins made walls around their camps out of logs, and had watchtowers with red flags on top. At the gates, Glothrok issued a challenge.

“WHO’S BRAVE ENOUGH TO FACE US?”

“Not us, not us!” cried the lookout Goblins, running around in circles. “Hyaaa! Chief, help us! There’s some Uruks at the gates!”

“He can’t fight the Chief…” Hoshgrish whispered to Glothrok, urgency in his low voice. “The Chief’s been around for years. Mazok barely knows how to fight.”

“A bit o’ life-n-death’s just what he needs to awaken that fightin’ instinct, then!” Glothrok raised his pike up to the sky.

“FIGHT US!”

The gates opened, and out sauntered a lean Goblin with a black-feathered helmet on. His bright orange eyes peeped out from behind a slotted visor and he wore only some pauldrons and vambraces for additional protection. His dull magenta skin bore many dark scars. Then he _screamed._

“IIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAI! COME TO MESS WITH MY TRIBE HAVE YA?!” Without a second of hesitation he sprinted towards Glothrok, who had the misfortune of being the group leader. Foshân leapt aside as commanded by a tug to the right and the Chief swiped the air with his sword. Frothing at the mouth, the Chief sought to slaughter all these insolent Orcs and zeroed in on the weakest looking one, Mazok. Still screeching his head off he lunged for Mazok who peed himself a little in fright. At once Mazok jumped away, his right arm coming up to support his left in holding his sword as if he still had a hand there. He could sense Hoshgrish being incredibly tense, but this was _his_ fight and the others weren’t going to interfere.

After dodging what could’ve been a deadly blow, Mazok made a swing at the Chief’s head. It bounced off the helmet and sent the force all the way back to Mazok’s arm. Despite the shock he tightened his grip and barely parried a slash going for his neck. The tip of the Chief’s sword bore down upon Mazok’s blade and was going to slice right into his stomach! He pushed back as hard as he could and lifting a foot from the ground, kicked the Chief right between the legs. No armour saved him from that and the Goblin shouted some nonsense in pain. Mazok knew how to take advantage of stunned enemies and drove his sword into the Chief’s hand which now covered his crotch. Blood spurted from there and Mazok just kept pushing until his blade met bone, and a sword smacked into the side of his arm. It caught between his pauldrons by the grace of the Valar, and as the Chief struggled Mazok withdrew his own sword and started randomly hacking at him. Clink, clank, oh that was flesh! Black blood spewed forth as Glothrok roared in delight and Hoshgrish watched in awe. Feldush was doing a little dance, so glad that Mazok was doing well! The Chief Goblin had no chance to hold onto his blade with the way Mazok’s shoulders were tilting, strike after strike landing on his half-armoured body. His grip weakened and he started clawing at Mazok, scraping across that pretty face with his dirty little talons. Mazok leaned back to avoid it and then sliced into the Chief’s arm. That stopped some of the scratching at least and as the Goblin cried out, Mazok shoved him to the ground and began to slam his helmeted head against the hard dirt.

“Go! Go! BREAK HIS SKULL!” Glothrok cheered, waving his pike around as if stirring the clouds.

“YEAH! KILL’IM!” Feldush jumped up and down, salivating at the sight of such brutality. Oh yes, Mazok was _good_. Brutal, even, as the Chief Goblin suffered severe brain trauma and was left unable to move on the ground. Mazok removed his helmet when he started twitching and beheaded him in a series of ill-aimed chops. Then he stood, pupils dilated and chest heaving. Hoshgrish ran straight to him and embraced him in a tight hug.

“Your first kill! I’m so proud of you!” He breathed in the scent of fresh blood, adrenaline and victory. “Take whatever you like from him. Maybe an ear.” Orcs often took the ears of their slain enemies, but usually when said enemies were more powerful, well-known Uruks.

Mazok thought the Chief Goblin looked rather disgusting but felt the need to take a trophy to remember this unique moment. His first kill… as an Orc. He held his hand out to Hoshgrish.

“Give dagger.”

Hoshgrish did, and took Mazok’s sword to hold. Mazok sliced back and forth into the ear at the base, ripping it off once most of the cartilage was cut. He held it up in triumph, enjoying the delighted cries of his fellow Orcs.

“Wear on neck.” he said as he gave Hoshgrish back the dagger, pointing to the necklace of teeth around Hoshgrish’s neck.

“I’ll make you a necklace.” Hoshgrish smiled, returning the sword to Mazok’s left hand. “You’ve done so well.”

“Hey!” Glothrok shouted. “The Goblin camp’s chiefless! Let’s go killem all!”

Feldush ran alongside Foshân and Glothrok into the camp, which hadn’t closed its gates yet. Hoshgrish went to pick up his hammer from where he’d dropped it and waited for Mazok to catch his breath. Globsnaga Genocide was a favourite pasttime for many Orcs. Even Hoshgrish enjoyed putting the crazy buggers out of their misery.

For hours, the four Orcs and one Warg chased the disorganized Goblins around until every last one was dead. They then ransacked the camp, bringing home heaps of food and rare trinkets since Goblins often hoarded unique things. Killing Goblins was less frowned upon in the eyes of Morgoth due to the rate at which they spawned. They bred ten times as fast as Orcs, spawned much more frequently and were immortal unless killed. They were the first sent out in hordes to overwhelm the enemy, Orcs coming afterwards as backup. Morgoth was quite protective over his ‘children’. The strong ones, at least.

In Hoshgrish’s tent that evening once Glothrok had returned to the Warg pens, Feldush scooped up some things into a sack. Between the three of them, all that Glothrok didn’t want had been divided as fairly as possible. There were coins and rings, bits of ceremonial armour, pieces of cheese and all sorts of random stuff. Feldush took for himself an ornate helm in gold and silver, small shiny objects that could be traded for things he actually liked, and a carved stone idol of Morgoth the same size as his hand. He didn’t have room in his small tent for much else. Hoshgrish shared his half of the loot with Mazok, who had settled into living with him easily.

“Look.” Hosgrish held up a wire brush, one with a handle clearly made for combing hair. “What would the Globsnaga be doing with this? They don’t have any hair.”

Mazok pointed to his own head, where the patches of hair between the burned areas on his skull had grown one finger length. Hoshgrish tilted his head to the side, and gestured with his hand. When Mazok shifted closer to him, eyes drifting towards the spread of items in the center of the tent, Hoshgrish ran the brush along the top of his head. The strands tingled at the roots where Mazok felt a pleasurable sensation. His shoulders relaxed, body slumping yet not falling over.

“Does it hurt?” asked Hoshgrish, holding Mazok in a sitting position with a hand over his stomach.

“No.” Mazok closed his eyes. “Feels… good.”

“You deserve a reward after your fighting today.” Hoshgrish combed carefully through each patch of hair on Mazok’s head, making sure not to scrape his skin. There was a bit on the left at his hairline, some in a clump above his right ear, little red wisps at the base of his neck and small gatherings of short strands here and there. It was clear he’d been shaved at some point in his life. But when?

“Your hair is short…” Hoshgrish whispered, his voice unusually smooth. When he was at his quietest, his throat did that. “Did it burn when you spawned?”

“Not… remember. Not talk.” Mazok’s head lolled to one side, his lips parting to allow even breaths past. _‘I don’t want to think about when he shaved me. No… this is good now. So… good…’_ Without knowing, he’d placed his hand over where Hoshgrish held him. His right wrist with the raw stump came up too and he groaned softly. Just like an elf, his hair had very sensitive nerves in every strand. What had been burnt off was deadened at the scalp but what remained tingled with life. Hoshgrish inspected the brush after fifteen minutes of calm brushing and found there wasn’t much hair in it. This pleased him as he knew he hadn’t hurt or broken Mazok’s hair. It was rare for Orcs to have the stuff in the first place, but it was more common in the younger ones anyway. Mazok’s hair wasn’t falling out, a sign of good health. He seemed to enjoy having it attended to and Hoshgrish made a mental note of it. Touching the strands with his thick fingers, Hoshgrish felt how incredibly _soft_ Mazok’s hair was. Softer than Warg fur, more delicate than insect wings. It really did have an _elvish_ feel. But Hoshgrish did not hate it, nor associate it with the weakness and pity he felt for the slaves. It was entirely Mazok’s own, and a good thing.

Hoshgrish sniffed him. There was that clean, sweet scent with a mild natural musk and a note of rare freshness. Most things in Angband were either decaying or on fire. Mazok smelt _new_. Familiar and new at once.

Mazok ended up falling asleep in Hoshgrish’s arms, content after an exhausting day. Hoshgrish set the brush aside after a time and lay with his little Uruk on the furs. Sleep came quickly that night.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, Mazok finds himself tangled up with Hoshgrish who wears the same thing he does, a tunic and breeches. Though his body is hard, it is not unforgiving and somehow Mazok has managed to use his thick chest as a pillow. He raises his head, listening for the sounds of the day. Hell-hawks screech in the distance and general Orcish chatter can be heard outside. Judging by the temperature in here, the sun hasn’t had a chance to start baking anything yet. His head feels a little cold, due to his hair not clumping together and being finely brushed. Then he remembers yesterday’s events and glances to where he left his ear-trophy. Atop the covered water barrel that touches the far left wall, the Chief Goblin’s ear sits. It’ll be worn on his neck today to dry in the sun and become a nice leathery accessory.

He thinks about last night, in the terms _Maedhros_ would.

_‘An Orc… brushing my hair… and I felt pleasure for it, relaxed, even! This is not right. I should be fighting these creatures, going home to Finno and my brothers…’_

Then Hoshgrish strokes the back of his head with a feather-light touch and Mazok remembers who he has become.

 _‘My brothers will not recognize me… and my body will not heal into its former shape. No, this is something I must accept… what I am now, is nothing like a prince of the Noldor. I… ohh, what’s he doing…?’_ He squirmed a little when a thumb brushed past his ear. Though he’d been tortured there by Sauron, he was still very sensitive at the tips. Sensitive in the way that made him press his legs together and blush.

“You’re awake.” Hoshgrish whispered, peering at him in the darkness. Light scarring remained on Mazok’s face from where he’d been clawed yesterday. “You look well.”

“Hoshgrish…” Mazok mumbled through his thin lips. “Mnh…”

“What is it?” That thumb kept circling absently at the tip of Mazok’s ear. “Your face is… changing colour.” Since the tent had a semi-transparent covering for a roof, a bit of daylight could enter when Hoshgrish peeled away the first ceiling panel. “What’s the matter?”

 _‘How am I supposed to tell him?’_ Mazok curled in on himself a little as Hoshgrish settled back down beside him. Ancient sensations were awakening in his body and he did not want them to bother him here, now.

“Have you caught some sickness from the Globsnaga?” Concerned, Hoshgrish placed a hand at the back of Mazok’s head. “Hey. Tell me.”

“Hungry.” said Mazok, having spent most of his energy yesterday. He tugged at Hoshgrish’s tunic, feeling his own wet drool in the fabric. “Food?”

“Okay. Have this cheese, it doesn’t have much mould on it.” Mazok was given a block of cheese around the size of his head to nibble on, and he sat up to eat it. But not until he offered some to Hoshgrish, who took a handful of the crumbling stuff for himself.

 _‘It’s good he knows how to share._ ’ thought Hoshgrish, enjoying the rich, pungent cheese. _‘I’ve taught him well. All that needs improvement is his fighting skills, which the trainers can look after, and his speech…’_ He watched Mazok eat, and when those soft green eyes met his own sharp yellow he smiled. Mazok smiled back.

~

Later in the day, Mazok sparred with Feldush. Hoshgrish sat in the shade by the lake watching as the two Orcs hacked at each other with sticks.

“Strength is important!” Feldush yelled as he whacked Mazok in the leg. “If ya can’t parry it, it’ll slice ya right up!”

 _‘I know that._ ’ Mazok snarled as he recalled his weapons training in both attack and defence. He’d been able to overwhelm many foes blade to blade with his own strength before, but his left hand was only just beginning to have a bit of dexterity to it. Fetching water had at least given him some nice biceps, though. His deltoids and pectorals weren’t half bad, either.

He made a calculated strike at Feldush in the chest, then stabbed at his face.

“OGHN!” Feldush staggered back, scrunching up his eyes and mouth. “Aahh, I’m gonna kill you for that!”

“Try.” grunted Mazok, bouncing in a guarded stance. Feldush made a wild attack towards him which he dodged in a whirling series of steps. Mazok danced around his friend getting random hits in and moving quite fast, taking a tactical approach to where he struck. After Feldush hit him with a savage blow however he found himself reeling. Stepping back, he held his shoulder. Hoshgrish leaned forwards, taking interest.

“Had enough?” Feldush smirked, clearly feeling a victory coming on.

“Never.” Mazok replied and lunged at Feldush, tackling him to the ground. He held his stick at the Orc’s bleeding face. “Me win.”

“Over me corpse!” Feldush leaned up and bit the end of the stick, wrenching it out of Mazok’s grasp with the sheer force of his jaws. He wrestled with Mazok in the dirt, scratching and pulling and biting at him. The scents of instinctual aggression mingled with blood and sweat and Mazok found it an intoxicating combination.

“You’re not supposed to kill each other!” Hoshgrish yelled out as he ran to break them apart. Mazok was getting a little carried away, as was Feldush who’d began to salivate at the thought of tearing strips of muscle away from his friend. When Hoshgrish pulled Mazok away however, Mazok squirmed in his arms and bit him on the neck.

“Ow!” cried Hoshgrish, letting Mazok go. “What was that for?”

Breathing heavily, Mazok realized he’d tensed his hands into spider-like forms and that he was crouched in a bestial, hostile position. Feldush was rolling around on his own trying to dissipate his need for murder and Hoshgrish looked _hurt._ Mazok shook the red fog from his eyes and blinked.

“Eh?”

“You silly thing. You bit me.” Hoshgrish showed Mazok his own bleeding neck. “Your teeth are getting sharper.”

Mazok doesn’t know if an apology will be accepted, and hasn’t learned the Black Speech equivalent of _sorry._

“You… hurt?” he asked, reaching up to Hoshgrish’s neck.

“I’ll live.” Hoshgrish flashed his best smile and showed no signs of pain at all. “You know, I think you should get a weapon of your own. You’re ready.”

“Want sword.” Mazok pointed to his right wrist. “Sword here.” He’d seen Orcs with hooks for hands and thought it wouldn’t be so unreasonable to have a sword attached there. Something that could be screwed off when not needed and replaced with something more hand-like, for daily convenience. Hoshgrish didn’t understand and tilted his head to the side.

“How will you hold it?”

“Sword _here!_ ” Mazok gestured again, smacking his stump. “Like hook. But sword.”

“Ah! That’s a clever idea. Let’s go to the metalsmiths, then! Feldush, get up. We’re getting Mazok a sword!”

Feldush stood, shook the last of his fighting spirit out of his limbs and swung his arms as he walked alongside Hoshgrish. Mazok on the other side had a bright smile on his face.

_‘Finally.’_

_~_

The Metalsmiths worked so close to lava their skin had become leathery and heat resistant over time. They melted ore and scraps into weapons and armour for every Orc, no matter what size. They didn’t make anything for the Goblins, however. Those little guys had their own smiths and scavengers.

By an open trough of lava and an anvil, Bolkum the Smith looked up. “What’ll it be today?”

Hoshgrish explained for Mazok who couldn’t articulate his exact needs very well. “Mazok here would like a bit of metal on his hand here, see where he doesn’t have one? Instead of a hook, he wants a sword.”

“One that can screw on and off, yeah? What kinda sword?” Bolkum grabbed Mazok then and inspected his stump. Mazok answered him then, snapping due to his dislike of being grabbed.   
“Longsword. Shiny longsword.”

“Alright, then.” At once Bolkum got a few misshapen ingots and threw them into a bucket, melting them over the lava. He then found a mould that matched his immediate memory of Mazok’s wrist and poured the liquid metal in, reaching for Mazok again. Before he could move, Mazok roared as searing pain annihilated his arm. It was worse than being left hanging for months. The molten iron fused with his flesh, the bottom half in the shape of the mould with notches and ridges inside. That mould had a twin that could transform Mazok’s forearm into the hilt of a sword, hook or pitchfork. A bucket of water came up to meet Mazok’s wrist, cooling the metal into shape. Then Bolkum released his tough grip.

“Stop yer whimpering.” Bolkum admonished the younger Orc with a smack to the back of the head. “Now, about that sword… it’ll take me a few days. Get back here then, eh?”

Mazok nodded and skittered close to Hoshgrish, whining softly. Fresh tears fell from his eyes and his entire face had flushed red. Feldush wondered why Mazok was so sensitive. This sort of pain was normal among the Uruks, after all! Perhaps it was that elvishness about him…

Hoshgrish nodded to Bolkum and turned away to walk back to the camps. Once out of earshot, he placed an arm around Mazok’s shoulders.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, hearing Mazok sniffle. “I should have warned you. Getting something like that done hurts.”

Mazok said nothing, embarrassed at his natural reaction to the pain. Hoshgrish sighed.

“Perhaps that’s enough adventuring for today.”

Silent, Feldush thought to himself. _‘Mazok should be able to join the army now n’ get proper training from the guys in Fil Gashan. He’s a whole-spawn after all, n’ knows the basics of fighting. Why does Hoshgrish still insist on guidin’ him through life so carefully? Every good Uruk has to fend for themselves. He knows that.’_

Mazok was glad to go back inside the tent with Hoshgrish and Feldush, shielded from the midday heat. In here it was a little warm but the water stayed cool and he drank deeply. He also poured a little over his burning wrist, hissing in pain. Hoshgrish petted his head gently.

“You’ll be alright.”

A soft purring came from deep within Mazok’s throat, his eyes closing as he was given attention. He could sense a vague displeasure from Feldush but could stand it as long as he didn’t see the _look_. The look at present however was directed at Hoshgrish, a kind of ‘ _you know what you’re doing and where it’ll lead, right?’_ look. Hoshgrish was curled up close behind Mazok, stroking the top of his head like Glothrok often did with Foshân. These two were beginning to _smell_ like each other for all the time they spent being friendly. For an Uruk, scent was the most distinguishing mark of individuality anyone could have. In here there was a thoroughly mingled aroma, a little cleaner than how Hoshgrish used to have it. Mazok’s subtle sweetness, Hoshgrish’s strong and meaty presence. Feldush couldn’t _believe_ his closest friend had integrated the pretty-faced wholespawn into owning his territory, and seemingly his heart. The two were inseperable. They acted almost like a bonded pair!

“Hoshgrish. Can I ask ya suttin?” Feldush picked at a speck of dried blood on the wall of the tent. “In private.”

“This is as private as you’ll get around here.” Hoshgrish’s quiet laughter ruffled Mazok’s hair. “What is it?”

“Don’t ya think it’s time Mazok got into the army? He’s ready for training, I reckon.”

Hoshgrish shook his head. “His wrist needs to heal before he can start training to use a hook or sword with this hand.. It’ll be a month or so before he can go as a recruit.”

“Bahhhh…” Feldush unleashed an annoyed growl. “Yer too nice to ‘im. You ain’t raisin ‘im like a proper tough Uruk. Just look at how comfortable ‘e is! When I was a runt, I was fightin’ the boys at the Draigoch outpost fer food! Gettin’ clawed at by all kinda shrakh! _He’s_ barely got any scars.”

“Feldush, enough.” Hoshgrish bared his teeth, eyes narrow. “Everyone grows differently. I enjoy looking after him.” His face went slack then, back to its usual placid look. Mazok turned, resting his head on Hoshgrish’s thick chest. “I daresay he is happy too.”

“He’s gonna die on the first day with the Captains.” Feldush scooted back, exiting the tent halfway. “And it’ll be yer fault.” Then he was gone, and Mazok turned to sit in Hoshgrish’s lap.

“What he say?” He peered into those black and yellow eyes, watching them flick about. “Me… die?”

“No, no. You’re not going to die. He’s just a little confused.” Hoshgrish pressed Mazok’s face into his chest lightly enough to encourage him to rest there. “You need to give yourself time to heal… and I will ensure nobody hurts you. Unless you want to fight.”

Mazok’s arms fell around the larger Uruk’s waist, holding him there. “No fight. Want rest.”

“Alright.” Hoshgrish and Mazok lay together in the cool shaded tent, midday turning to evening and the heat of day fading along with any light. No stars twinkled in the sky above Angband, only dark clouds swirling with Melkor’s malice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oF COURSE I SHIP THEM xD


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when u have writer's block but want to write uruk smut

A few days passed. Hoshgrish was beginning to notice a few changes in Mazok that only increased as time went on. Today they sat together eating thick Warg-meat with the others, fanning away swarms of flies. The scent of rot hung heavy in the air, tinged with something else. Mazok shifted about now and then, sniffing at random intervals. Discomfort crossed his face often, clear in his ever-changing posture.

“What’s wrong with pretty-face?” asked Dhaub, a low-ranked Captain chewing on some bones. “He got maggots in his arse or somethin?” The Orcs round the fire laughed and Mazok didn’t give two shits. Hoshgrish however was worried, and shot a piercing glare to Dhaub.

“I don’t know. What usually ails little ones like him?”

“Looks like a Caragor in heat!” shouted Tharbûrz from beside Dhaub. “Stick him in the breeding pens, he’ll be right.”

“Eh?!” Hoshgrish nearly choked and averted his eyes, uncomfortable around the topic. Most Uruks didn’t care that the females of their species were forced to breed to fill the ranks of Morgoth’s army, but some found it similar to torture. Mainly, those who’d been on the receiving end of a lusty suitor’s advances were the ones who stayed away from it. Everyone knew how little Uruks were made, and also what the males did to assert dominance over their weaker kin. Mated pairs of the same sex weren’t exactly uncommon in the power-obsessed Army of Darkness. They were however a boost in status for one, a drop in reputation for another. It ended in embarrassment often for most young Uruks who went through this particular time in their lives. Hoshgrish knew the signs and didn’t want to believe Mazok was experiencing what he considered a rather traumatic process.

Mazok had gone through elven puberty with positive results thousands of years ago. Now, he felt an insatiable need to rut against Hoshgrish and taste his flesh, his teeth sharpening to facilitate bite marks. He trembled, gnawing at his food.

_‘Whyyyy do I feel like this? My body burns, everything aches, and… there… I shouldn’t be having **anything** there! What disease have I caught from these… these creatures?’_ He looked up to see all the Uruks around the fire staring at him, then felt Hoshgrish’s heavy hand upon his shoulder. The touch was tentative, but he relished it and leaned into his friend. The Uruks jeered and whistled, some even throwing bits of meat at him.

“When’s the baby due eh?!”

“Bend him over and fuck his ass raw!”

“Go on Hoshgrish! Show us!”

Appalled, Hoshgrish squirmed. It was expected of him to publicly humiliate and disrespect Mazok to show dominance, as most Uruk did whenever the opportunity arose. He wanted Mazok to be well-ranked and with a decent reputation by the time he got into the army though, or he’d be torn to pieces. He knew what happened to the submissive one in Uruk relationships. Well, when they were away from their mate, anyway. There were no quick flings to sate base desires. It was bonding, loneliness or death. Equality did not exist.

“You lot expect me to take advantage of him when he’s just getting sorted out? Forget it, all of you. I haven’t got an interest in that.” Hoshgrish finished off the rest of his food, nudging Mazok away so the younger Uruk could sit up straight. Mazok only clung to his arm and rubbed up against him, much to the amusement of the others.

“You should be glad pretty-face is so into you! Nobody with eyes would want a piece of your ugly mug.” Dhaub made a rude gesture at Hoshgrish, who blatantly ignored him. “Oi! You listenin?”

“I don’t care.” said Hoshgrish, standing up. “Mazok, come. Let’s spar away from this stupid lot.”

“Spar?” Among the rising clamor of offended Uruks yelling at Hoshgrish, Mazok disagreed. “No.”

“Then what?” While leading Mazok away before someone got hurt, Hoshgrish wondered what he possibly wanted. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

Mazok grabbed Hoshgrish by the hand and stood as tall as he could, back cracking. “Nnng…” The scent coming from his neck was much more than a greeting, something Hoshgrish recognized as powerful lust. Mazok swayed on his feet as if drunk. He was lead back home by one very embarrassed Hoshgrish who shed his armour into a messy pile, then sat down on it.

“Mazok. You have to tell me what you feel, because you might be sick and not know it.”

Mazok tugged at the straps of his pauldrons, wrenching them off along with his belt and breastplate. He then stripped off his tunic, baring his toned upper body.

“Hot.” he breathed, fanning himself with the edge of his breastplate. “Burning.”

_‘In the most inappropriate of places. Why me?’_ Mazok lowered his gaze in shame. He still didn’t know the word for _sorry_. Hoshgrish pitied him in this uncontrollable state and knew it would be months before it passed. With whole-spawns, their bodily maturation varied. Mazok’s had come unexpectedly, and it seemed that he thought only Hoshgrish could help him.

“Here.” Water was given to Mazok and once he drank it, he panted for air. His flushed cheeks and wide pupils made him look more innocent than ill. Hoshgrish tried not to stare when he removed his tight leggings. “M…maybe you should lie down…”

Mazok did, on his stomach with the soft furs caressing his long, thick arousal. He swiveled his hips about, moaning so quietly his voice cut off to a silent gasp.

“Ahhh…….” The instant relief of just _attending_ to his neglected erection pushed thoughts of propriety away. He spread his legs, fine ass displayed where he knew it caught Hoshgrish’s eye. There was an audible gulp at that.

“Hoshgrish…” he hissed, turning to look over his shoulder. “Come here.” The Uruk had helped him with everything else. Why not this?

“I… don’t think we should…” Hoshgrish could not tear his eyes away from Mazok’s healthy and tantalising figure, befitting one with the name pretty-face. No open wounds or signs of disease showed upon his greyish skin, only old scars that were healing up nicely. “Mazok, you’re young, you don’t know what this means…”

“Gnh!” Mazok grunted, fucking a knotted patch of fur beneath his aching length. A little dampness there gave him something different to feel. “Want… you…”

“You poor thing… you can’t help yourself, can you?” Hoshgrish shook his head, moving to lay beside Mazok. Mazok turned at once and grabbed him, burying his face in his neck. Hoshgrish froze as he felt teeth start to nibble, then chew with a wet tongue laving up and down. Mazok felt pleasure despite having no idea what he was doing.

‘ _Just **why** do I feel the need to place my mouth upon him, here…? He… he tastes good… and smells… comfortable.’_ He tried to get on top of Hoshgrish to taste more of him but a sudden strong grip pushed him onto his back. Hoshgrish held him down with a hand on his chest, blood dripping from his neck.

“My turn.” he whispered, and scraped his teeth along Mazok’s jawline. Mazok mewled, groping at Hoshgrish to pull him closer, needing the heat of his body. If it consumed him, perhaps his lust would be quenched. Hoshgrish did not bite him however and kissed the tender vein at the side of his neck, pressing teeth just close enough to threaten. “I will not hurt you.” He licked to Mazok’s ear, sloppily teasing the outer shell. “But-” He barely got an explanation out before Mazok moaned, a long and loud expression of sheer bliss.

“More.” Mazok demanded as he gripped Hoshgrish by the back of his head, pulling him in closer. “Urrgh…”

Hoshgrish continued and felt Mazok’s nude form begin heating up, his hardness pressing with raw need. _‘He looks so precious like this…’_ thought Hoshgrish, his lower teeth teasing a soft earlobe. _‘So… happy, and close to me.’_ Neither of them were fighting for any particular position, Mazok ecstatic to receive some attention in the way he desired most. He pushed his body up, grinding his cock into Hoshgrish’s stomach.

“Touch me.” he growled, staring into his companion’s eyes. “There.”

Hoshgrish reached down, gentle and unobtrusive as he wrapped one hand around Mazok’s length. The texture was unlike anything he’d felt before, the tip exposed like he’d been cut or perhaps spawned with the bits of a tortured elf-servant. Spear-shaped and heavy, Mazok’s length throbbed in his hand glistening silvery-white. Hoshgrish began to stroke him up and down, fondling beneath in a harmless exploration of Mazok’s body. On his back, Mazok moaned and gasped at the firm pulls, ears flushed bright red with delight.

“Ooohh… mmn!” It came naturally for him to ask for what he desired and he tilted his hips up, arching his back. “Touch… faster…”

Hoshgrish obediently sped up his movements and licked at Mazok’s neck, tickling and pleasuring him at once. It also cleaned him of a little sweat that beaded upon his skin, all this wriggling making for some strenuous exercise. Those legs were spread so far and coming up to bend that Hoshgrish was tempted to give in. Mazok was giving off some of the most powerful pheromones he’d smelt in years. This raw, ancient lust affected him in such a unique way – his thoughts became faint and the heat of the moment threatened to overwhelm him. He removed his hand and pinned Mazok’s hands above his head, the younger Uruk’s legs wrapping around his waist.

“Hoshgrish, ngh!” Mazok grunted with a wide-eyed look of shock, holding on with all the strength in his legs. “In…” From his tight ass leaked a glistening, sweet substance. That was all that remained of his elven biology and resulted from his wholehearted consent to what he wanted. “In… me. Now.”

Unable to resist, Hoshgrish unlaced his breeches and hovered over Mazok. Mazok caught sight of a huge shadow cast over his waist before a greenish face filled his vision and burning pain shot through his body. Hoshgrish filled him with his thick cock until he met resistance deep inside. Slick sounds came from their joining along with feeble cries from Mazok, lips pulled back and teeth bared. He hissed, unable to relax as there was something half the size of his arm shoved up his ass. But it filled the emptiness and soothed his maddening aches – so he welcomed the thrusts that followed. Panting, Hoshgrish pounded into him with as much grace as a lightning strike. His own instincts urged him to shove, stab and maim his partner’s innards in what was known as a rite of claiming, the neck-bites and scents already shared. Brutal growls rumbled past his thin lips, jagged bottom teeth dripping with saliva as he hungered for _more._ He dipped his face into Mazok’s neck and bit him _hard_ , his body weight resting a little more on his arms which forced Mazok’s wrists into the ground. Mazok whined at that, meeting Hoshgrish’s thrusts with his face turned aside.

“Aaaiiiiii!” he screeched, the scent of blood rising in the tent. Hoshgrish licked his lips, tasting unique sugar in Mazok’s blood. From this Uruk’s body, it seemed everything was overly pleasant. Hoshgrish wanted to eat him alive. He kissed and chewed all the flesh he could reach, wounding Mazok only lightly. Mazok’s entire body tingled with the mix of pain and delight, his hardness rubbing against Hoshgrish’s muscled stomach. Deep inside he clenched, pulsed and took Hoshgrish in with complete desperation. So deep in fact that a glorious feeling bloomed within and he cried out, warmth flooding his insides as Hoshgrish found joyful release. Harsh breathing and his own heartbeat were all he could hear, stinging at his neck and pure ecstasy everywhere else. Then Hoshgrish collapsed on him and his hands were free, a face on his chest and a _lot_ of weight on his body.

Mazok could hardly breathe but was strangely comfortable, as if protected by the massive Uruk atop him. He felt full and content, such great relief bestowed upon him by his precious Hoshgrish.

_‘This… this is good… I would not mind more of this. It does not hurt that much, and he is kind to me. But… what does he feel?’_

Hoshgrish remained inside Mazok, his rush subsiding to allow conscious thoughts back. _‘Now… I am bound to him. I gave in.’_ He had never done anything like this before, trusting instinct to guide him well. Mazok was so tight and warm, like a good leather sheath worked over open flame for his longsword. He only pulled out when he softened enough to do so, causing Mazok no pain as his ass was _very_ well lubricated. Dripping into the furs, Mazok moaned softly. Hoshgrish snuggled up beside him and threw a thick arm over his mate’s chest. That was what they were now, considered among the Uruk. _Mated_. Undoubtedly the news would spread and Hoshgrish cringed to think of what the others expected of him.

_‘I will not hurt him.’_ He promised in silence. _‘He is **mine** , and I will guard him until death.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might seem a bit awkward but hey I enjoyed it LOL not the deepest, most philosophical relationship-writing I knowwwww lol  
> if you want dank relations check out 20 years of thrandolas or Might hHAH


	6. Chapter 6

 

Sometime late at night, Feldush was wandering among the camps trailing his sword in the dirt when he picked up the sound of clanking metal. He squinted in the darkness and caught sight of Borgu the Poisoner, one of the most lethal warchiefs in the Southeastern camps. Borgu sniffed, raising his green-tinted crossbow.

“Who goes there?”

“Ah, ‘s only me, sir!” Feldush lowered his head as Borgu walked beside him, breathing deeply.

“Mmm, little maggot you are walkin ‘round this hour. Where you goin, eh?”

“Just out a bit, nothin’ to do. I’ll take any orders if you’ve got em, sir!” Feldush knew not to stand to attention when nobody else was around, nor to make eye contact in case aggression was perceived.

Borgu gave Feldush a sharp poke in the back with the tip of his unloaded crossbow. “Scouts’ve reported a band o’ rogue hillmen comin’ up from the forest. Tramug n’ a coupla others are gonna lead a warband down to kill the fuckers n’ raid their camps. You’ll join em in a few hours.” He got up close, enough to smell the smaller Uruk’s fear. “Get yer gear n’ whatever friends you got. Meet at the Southern banner.” Then he stormed off, expecting Feldush to obey. Feldush relaxed after a few minutes and sprinted back to his camp, finding Mazok, Hoshgrish and a few others awake.

“Y’all heard about the raid on the hillmen?” Feldush shouted as he came into the torchlight beside a well-constructed tent. “Southern banner, few hours lead by Tramug. Who’s comin’?”

“Oh, a raid! What fun.” Hoshgrish nudged Mazok who was half asleep, sitting in his lap. “Mazok, you’ll enjoy this.”

“Mm?” Mazok looked up, saw Feldush and gave him a lopsided smile. “Hey.”

“Ay.” Feldush nodded. “’S about time you got to go on a good ol’ night raid. You too, Captain!” He pointed his torch at Dhaub, who was eating a massive scorpion with his bare hands. “You’ll get man-flesh tonight instead of whatever the heck that is.”

“Uhuh. Was planning on goin’ anyway. Got me axe right here.” Dhaub gestured, then went back to eating. Mazok stood with the assistance of Hoshgrish, then went to get his swords. One he held in his left hand, the other screwed into the holder on his right. He’d begun to dual-wield for convenience and was especially lethal with his old knowledge combined with the new. He wore his full set of armour plus the necklace Hoshgrish had made for him, with the ear of the former Chief Goblin proudly strung on it. Hoshgrish took up an iron mace, checked over his platemail to make sure everything was strapped tightly and beckoned to his mate.

“Let’s go. The Southern banner is this way.”

Feldush and Dhaub went along, whispering to each other. Dhaub had been watching Hoshgrish and Mazok more than Feldush, who’d tried to stay away from them. Now, the information was shared.

“They’ve bonded, would you believe it? Mazok managed to seduce our Hoshgrish. Can’t find one without the other!” said Dhaub, uncaring if Hoshgrish heard him. He wasn’t saying anything particularly insulting, right…?

“I know.” Feldush shook his head. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Eh? Whaddya mean?” Dhaub hefted his big purple axe over one shoulder, squinting sideways at Feldush. “You wanted a piece of pretty-face?”

“No…” It was an honest answer. “I wanted to see ‘im well an’ strong in the army, but now it looks like e’s got the duty of bedmate before soldier…”

“Hey. There’s still hope for him once he gets a good bit of training done. Usually breaks any soft spirits and forges a warrior out of the weakest spawns.” Dhaub observed the way Mazok walked, his gait with a natural confidence to it. “I don’t think he’s as weak as most say, though.”

“Reckon ‘e could beat you in a fight?”

“Nahhhh.”

 

Upon reaching the Southern Banner, a group of six orcs could be seen rallied around someone wielding a torch. Hoshgrish took a closer look and saw that it was Tramug with his flaming spear, not a torch. The thing was imbued with a terrible, fiery spirit that consumed Uruk and Elda alike. And of course, hillmen.

“We up for a spit-roast tonight, boys!” Tramug roared, riling up the warband into a cacophony of battle cries. In the chill night air, excitement wavered in the heart of every orc. Mazok stood beside his mate with both swords out, yellow-green eyes glinting bright. Feldush and Dhaub kept pace at the back as the warband set out from the Southern Banner. Hard, dusty ground turned to a grassy plain with sparse, dry vegetation. Thick-soled boots smacked against the ground like a stampede rather than orderly army; there was no instruction for walking tonight. The plan was to go forth, slaughter, raid and plunder. Then go home, preferably in one piece. Hoshgrish sniffed the air, licking his lips. His focus zeroed in on the wisp of man-flesh on the wind. Mazok sniffed too, but couldn’t smell anything. He decided to stay quiet.

Tramug waved his spear in the air, a circle of fire forming above his head. It was a magical sigil of destruction, one that would incinerate everything near him were he to fall in battle. He then turned and enchanted everyone’s weapons, even those that were sheathed.

“Man-filth ahead! They’re hiding in the trees, GET EM!” Tramug thrust his spear forwards and opened his great, gaping maw, unleashing a bestial howl of utmost ferocity. The warband rushed forth into the forest, mannish cries reaching their ears both in fear and determination. Mazok hesitated only because folk like these had once been his allies; it was not in his nature to fight them. But the thrumming energy and bloodlust of his uruk brethren drove him into a snarling frenzy. He leapt into the fray, hacking left and right with his two swords. His first strike slit a throat so deeply the head flew backwards and fresh, hot blood sprayed all over his face. An uncontrollable shriek of delight burst from within him, and he continued cutting down the terrified men. Dhaub went about his fighting with a bored look; this wasn’t real battle to him, just a run-of-the-mill night raid. These enemies were weak and he could see every strike coming in the motions of quick feet before sluggish arms. Hoshgrish fought as the mood struck him, with efficiency and purpose, but he also found himself looking out for Mazok who seemed to have fully immersed himself in a true bloodsurge. In all Uruks, there was the innate ability to grow stronger from rage or excitement, so strong that adrenaline that would normally last a minute stretched on for much longer. Mazok’s wild strikes were so quick that his allies had to stay out of his way to avoid being slaughtered.

“He’s a true Uruk.” said Dhaub, patting Feldush on the shoulder as the last man fell twitching around a flaming spearhead. “He lives for the fight.”

“Good, then.” Feldush agreed. “Now enough talkin’. Let’s skin this lot.” As was the custom after a raid, every corpse was skinned and butchered by those who knew how. Hoshgrish and Feldush did most of the skinning, delicate work it was… and the other orcs in the warband sliced meat from bones to serve at dawn. Those who were hungry now ate raw flesh, Mazok taking a piece of rump for himself and Hoshgrish snacking on a thigh. None were too injured, for the men had been weary and caught unawares. The full force of a healthy, strong warband was not to be trifled with. Tramug stuck his spear in the dirt, his bright red breastplate dripping with fresh blood.

“Bah, the fuckers don’t have anything good. Basic supplies, the usual. Take what you want!” The scavenging began. It turned up only one thing of use to Sauron’s Army : A piece of paper. Nobody present could read it and Mazok was not about to do so willingly, so it was back to camp for the successful warband.

 

~

 

In the morning, everyone clustered around the fire to hear the only literate orc around the Southeastern Camps translate the note. The Hillmen had been ordered to scout the borders of Angband’s territory, and report back to Silwe at the Dorthonion Central Encampment.

“What encampment? There ain’t shit in that pine forest.” Tarz the Knife jabbed a sharp finger at Drek’thar, who crumpled up the paper and threw it into the bonfire.

“No gratitude these days, I swear…” The shriveled orc shook his head and scuttled off, muttering to himself. Hoshgrish leaned forwards, intrigued.

“Maybe we should do some scouting of our own! I want to see how strong the forces are in the forest.”

“Yeah, you’d best leave that to the Captains.” Dhaub waved his leg bone around, the one he had been eating for the past three minutes. “Forces of the enemy are what we look after, then report that stuff to the Warchiefs. You don’t worry your squat little head about it.”

Hoshgrish knew his place and nodded. Mazok meanwhile tried to think what sort of elves would be in Dorthonion at this time, trying to amass an army. His memory was spotty after having been screwed with in Angband, but at least he could remember the last orders he’d given.

_‘Observe before attack. Morgoth is stronger than us.’_

Hoshgrish rested his arm around Mazok’s shoulders, staring into the bonfire. _‘I have a bad feeling about this paper… there could be an ambush waiting, or perhaps a sudden attack on our southernmost camps. If that happens, Mazok will be in danger… I will not allow it.’_ He rubbed Mazok’s upper arm affectionately with a large, warm hand. Mazok glanced at the thick green fingers touching his smooth grey flesh and had the urge to bite one. So he did, and Hoshgrish yelped.

“Ah! What was that for?”

Mazok looked down. “Nh… wanted taste.”

“Oh, you.” Hoshgrish smiled. “Here.” He gave his mate one finger to nibble on and Mazok did so, content. The day wore on.

 

As Mazok was falling asleep in his mate’s embrace, the tent’s shady atmosphere was disrupted. A twisted face with two thick tusks and sharp blue eyes could be seen, along with a hand holding the entrance flap aside.

“Mazok. That you?”

Hoshgrish clutched Mazok tightly enough to startle the smaller uruk. “Who’s asking?”

“Ghashrat the Messenger, here to recruit the guy who fought good on last night’s raid. Hand ‘im over, Hoshgrish.”

Hoshgrish bared his teeth, and Mazok did too with a cute little hiss. “He’s not ready.”

“Course ‘e is. Got a fightin’ spirit accordin’ to Warchief Tramug. Now, you goin’ against the Warchief’s judgement here…?” Ghashrat’s cold gaze roamed over the tightly clenched fingers around limbs. “Or just don’t wanna see yer mate die?”

“Both.”

Mazok could feel Hoshgrish’s anger and protective spirit rising beyond levels he had felt before. He glanced back and saw death in his mate’s eyes, frightening and red.

“H…Hoshgrish… I fight good?”

Hoshgrish bit his bottom lip. “Ngh, yes you fight good. But…”

“I want be soldier.” Mazok nodded. “Fight good.”

“Mazok! You don’t know what that means!” Shaking his head, Hoshgrish tried to calm his now squirming partner. “Wait…!”

Mazok was in no mood to wait and bit Hoshgrish in the neck, hard enough to make his thick skin bleed. He then licked the wound, growling.

“Ghhnn…. I not die. Come back soon.”

Hoshgrish let him go.


End file.
